


You Can't Live a Fairytale

by amycarey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And yet somehow canon divergence not straight up AU, Based on seminal romcom classic Kate and Leopold, F/F, Time and space travel shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: When Emma Swan’s upstairs neighbour brings home a strange woman who claims to be a queen from another time and place, Emma’s pretty sure she’s either an actor who’s gone a bit too method or just escaped a cult. However, coerced into looking out for Regina, she starts to wonder if there isn’t something in this after all--and starts to fall for the young queen.  A canon divergence AU loosely based on ‘Kate and Leopold’.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the SQ Supernova organisers. These events are so important to fandom and y'all have done a stellar job.
> 
> Thank you to the various people who have helped me through struggling to write this - Bishop, Mari, Maia, Bailey, Sharon...
> 
> Thank you to my magnificent artist, KennedyMorgan. Please give her work plenty of love.
> 
> Title is a quote from 'Kate and Leopold'.
> 
> Also, there are no longer police horses in the Boston Common apparently. Please consider this part of the Alternate Universe with my apologies.
> 
> EDIT: I'm really sick of getting comments about writing a sequel. There will never be a sequel. I was proud of, and happy with, the ending and those comments make me really anxious and upset, especially given I know longer write. Please don't be that person.

_ She sees the woman immediately. While the king hadn’t mentioned they would have visitors from across the sea, this woman’s dark skin and strange, form-fitting clothing marks her out as  _ not _ from the Enchanted Forest.  _

 

_ She is intrigued, particularly by the way the woman stands behind one of the banquet tables, meeting Regina’s eye boldly. No one at King Leopold’s court meets Regina’s eye—and not simply because she is the queen and, thus, above them. Instead, they’re uncomfortable. Kings often take younger brides, but rarely ones so young when the king is so old, and rarely does such a king ignore his beautiful young queen as intently as King Leopold does.  _

 

_ So when the woman starts to shift through the crowds towards a side exit, Regina stands. Snow looks curiously across at her. “Where are you going, Regina?” The ruffles of her hideous white dress shift as she cranes over to whisper in her insufferably loud way, drawing the entire high table’s attention to Regina. _

 

_ “I simply need some air, dear Snow,” she murmurs, and slides out from behind the high table. The king, of course, doesn’t seem to care, turning back to his meal. Regina notices, with some bitterness, that he reaches across to pat Snow’s hair, bestowing her with a benevolent smile. Well, she will certainly not be missed in her brief absence. She follows the woman out and through the gardens, waiting until they are a fair distance from the banquet hall before making her presence known.  “Stop!” she cries, and the woman turns. “What are you doing at the palace?” _

 

_ The woman frowns. “You weren’t supposed to see me.” _

 

_ “Are you an assassin?” Regina asks because that would explain the tight clothing. “I am sure my husband can offer more than your employer.” She stalks forward, fingers twitching with the desire to create fire—but it wouldn’t do to show her hand so quickly, not when she doesn’t know this woman’s allegiances. It would be too disastrous for words if she was one of the king’s people.  _

 

_ Now closer, she sees that the woman holds a curious device in her hand, a metal box with some sort of lever. “Stay back,” the woman says, voice clipped and harsh. “I’m warning you.” A strange, blue light glows from the device, and Regina finds herself drawn to it, stepping forward instead of back as ordered, reaching out a hand to touch. _

 

_ “No!” the woman yells, but it’s too late. Her fingertips scrape warm metal and the pair of them are pulled into the light.  _

 

_ And then there is nothing. _

 

_ * * * _

 

Emma is not particularly excited to wake up enveloped in darkness. 

 

She is especially unexcited about waking up to footsteps and shouting from the apartment above. She’s been trailing her latest mark all night, finally bringing him into the local police station at three that morning, and—she looks at her phone and groans—two hours sleep is  _ not _ sufficient. Tamara Drake has not been the most reliable of neighbours since she moved into the upstairs apartment just a month after Emma moved herself moved in; she has all sorts of weird-ass technologies and machines in her apartment, and she’s set off the fire alarms in the building on more than one occasion. 

 

(Still, she’s better than the greasy, leather-wearing asshole who used to live there and hit on Emma every time she went to collect her mail so she doesn’t complain more than the occasional grumbling.)

 

Tamara is usually as misanthropic as Emma herself, so it’s unlike her to have someone in her apartment for more than a quick fuck—and those noises are quite different and easier to drown out than the ones disturbing her sleep now. So, grumbling, she pulls on sweatpants, slips her feet into sneakers, and pads upstairs. She bangs at the door. “Tamara!” she yells. “Open up.”

 

The door opens a crack, and Tamara peers through. “What, Swan?”

 

“You okay?”

 

“Perfect,” Tamara says, though it’s like someone has carved a line between her eyes and she has bitten her bottom lip raw. “Now, if you don’t mind…” And she tries to close the door

 

“I heard yelling,” Emma says, wedging her foot in between the door and its frame. 

 

“Miss Drake, who  _ is _ this dreadful woman?” comes an imperious voice from within the apartment and Emma eschews any good manners, pushes open the door and sees  _ her _ for the first time. She’s beautiful. Perched on the arm of Tamara’s couch, her long, navy skirts cling sinuously to her hips and legs, and a high neckline encrusted with glittering jewels that, to Emma’s untrained eye at least, look real. Dark hair is pinned in coils at the back of her head and Emma follows the curve of her high neck up to the haughty set of her determined chin and the thin scar adorning her snarling upper lip. 

 

Too late, she realises she’s staring, mouth agape. “Oh, do close your mouth, girl,” the woman in front of her snaps. 

 

And, with that, the facade of beauty is broken. What an  _ asshole _ . “And who the hell do you think you are?”

 

“Swan—” Tamara says, desperate warning in her voice, but she is interrupted.

 

“I am Regina,” she says, standing, skirts falling in a waterfall of velvet to the floor, and stalking forward. She carries herself with a predatory sort of grace, and her voice grows in strength and depth and she continues. “Queen of The Enchanted Forest, and you, girl, would do well to remember it.” 

 

Emma snorts. Tamara frowns. Regina’s hand clenches into a tight fist and uncoils. “Tamara,” Emma says, rolling her eyes. “Maybe don’t hook up with actresses. More trouble than they’re worth.”

 

A flush of anger appears high on Regina’s cheekbones. Her eyes flash dark. “How dare—”

 

“If your majesty could keep the damn noise down,” Emma says, “I’ll be on my way.” And she storms out, back to her own, blessedly empty apartment, where she attempts to sleep, before giving it up as useless and settling for angry cleaning instead.

 

A couple of hours later, she has thoroughly scrubbed all the scum from her bathroom, and there is a knock at her front door. When she answers it, she finds Tamara. This time, Tamara is dressed in a pantsuit—Emma thinks she works for a PR firm or something equally fancy, in spite of her eccentricities—and she bears both a bottle of wine and a sheepish expression. “No,” Emma says. “No, no, no.”

 

“Hear me out,” Tamara replies, pleading. “Look, I know it sounds crazy but everything Regina said is true. Magic, it’s real and—”

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Do you even hear yourself? You picked up some disturbed actress who got a little too method and you’re just trying to justify a bad hook-up.”

 

“Look,” Tamara says, and the veneer of patience is already wearing thin. “I have to go to work. You’ve got a flexible schedule. Can you just, like, pop in and check she hasn’t burned my apartment down in a couple of hours?” 

 

“That’s probably the best case scenario with this girl,” Emma says. However, she remembers, once again, that if Tamara moves out, it could be worse. At least the Fox Mulder type is kind of endearing. And she remembers too a night, not long ago, when a hook up at a bar had gone horribly wrong and he was so much stronger than her and so loud, too loud, and then Tamara had been there with this weird homemade taser and, well, the guy hadn’t been much of a problem for her after that encounter. She sighs. “ _ Fine _ .”

 

“Thank you!” Tamara says, thrusting the wine at her. “You won’t regret it.” And she runs for the elevator.

 

“I already do,” Emma mutters, dumping the wine on the kitchen bench, and pads into her bedroom to find socks. 

 

* * *

 

Her second encounter with her majesty happens two hours later, and it is decidedly less formal. She unlocks Tamara’s apartment door, the quiet and still of the space eerie, and calls out, “Hello?”

 

Silence. The ridiculously ornate blue velvet dress is laid across the couch, but beyond that there’s no sign that Regina is even still there. Perhaps she’s gone home, she thinks, but she knows she’d never get that lucky.

 

“Hey? Your majesty? Regina? Lady?” She pads through the apartment, hesitating at Tamara’s closed bedroom door because what if Regina’s sleeping? What if she’s dead? Emma  _ so _ doesn’t need an encounter with the police. 

 

“Just what do you think you’re doing in Miss Drake’s apartment, Miss Swan?” comes a voice from behind her. She turns and encounters Regina a skimpy towel wrapped around her, and beads of water dripping from loose wet hair down her sharp collarbone.

 

“Um,” Emma says, very articulately. 

 

“See something you like?” Regina asks, voice low and predatory and Emma feels like a rodent trapped in the gaze of a cat as she stalks forward and lets the towel slip, baring, well, everything.

 

“ _ God _ ,” Emma hisses and grabs the towel, thrusting it at Regina and accidentally hitting her in the boob. “Do you have a change of clothes? Tamara’s probably won’t fit you. She’s a rail. I’ll be right back.”

 

And she flees. Back in her apartment, she opens the fridge, letting the frigid air cool her face, which feels rather like it’s burning. The images of Regina— _ naked _ —are seared into her mind and, well, she can kind of see why Tamara might have gone there even if this woman is clearly certifiable. 

 

She shakes her head. No more. 

 

Regina is seated on the couch when she returns, back straight, ankles crossed, regal as the queen she believes herself to be even if clad only in a towel. “Clothes,” Emma says, shoving the pile at her and trying not to think about the fact that she’s giving this woman her underwear. 

 

“What is this dreadful fabric?” Regina asks, eyeing the flannel shirt at the top of the pile critically. 

 

“I mean, you can always go topless,” Emma says. “It’s cold out though.”

 

Regina sniffs and retreats to the bedroom. 

 

On her return, Emma notices that she has managed to pull her hair back into a complicated braid, the sort Emma used to envy as a kid, the sort that the kids with shiny sneakers and Disney lunch-bags and clean clothes every day used to have, the sort that kids who were loved, kids who were  _ wanted _ , had. “Miss Drake’s boots fit,” she says, and Emma’s sort of disappointed she doesn’t get to see her majesty wearing the fuzzy panda socks she picked out. 

 

“Looking sharp,” Emma says, and then she does the finger guns gesture. Regina just stares at her. “Right, let’s go for a walk.”

 

“I’m not a dog,” Regina snaps.

 

“Did I say you were?” Emma asks. “I’m hungry. There’s no food in my apartment and I caught a dickhead who was scamming his grandma last night so I deserve a bear claw.”

 

Regina looks at her in bewilderment. “I literally understood none of that.”

 

“Let’s just go, Daniel Day Lewis,” Emma says.

 

It’s a brisk day, wind biting at Emma’s face and she pulls her jacket tight around herself. Regina seems impervious to the cold and she walks slowly, taking in her surroundings, though all with a sneer, as though this will convince Emma she’s not fascinated by everything. Emma wonders, and not for the first time, just where Tamara found this woman.

 

They make it to the Common and she’s watching Regina watch squirrels like she has never seen them before in her life—this quirking at the corner of her lips suggests a smile might be threatening to form and she crouches to their level, making soft chittering noises and beckoning with her fingers—when she feels a hand brush against her and realises she’s being robbed. “Hey!” Emma yells, but the guy has taken off. She starts running after him but he’s faster than her and there are crowds of people to push through and she’s totally forgotten her babysitting gig when there’s a sharp, “Onwards, steed!” and Regina, who has apparently commandeered a police horse, gallops past her. 

 

Emma follows the crowd as it surges, pushing to the front and finds Regina, still astride the horse, backing the thief up against the wall of the public bathrooms. “Give back what you stole,” she says, voice silky with malevolence, “or there will be nowhere you can hide. I will make it my mission to destroy you. I will see to it that you are turned into dust and bone.” She urges the horse forward, making the thief hit his head against the wall, before halting the animal.

 

“ _ Jesus Christ _ ,” the thief breathes and, seeing Emma, obviously decides she’s the lesser of two evils because he says, “Hey, lady. You can have your fucking wallet. Just call off your attack dog.”

 

Emma approaches, smiling. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, taking the wallet from his outstretched hand and then punching him in the jaw. She doesn’t put her full force into it—she’s tired, there’s no harm done, and Regina has already terrified him half to death—but he staggers a little and then runs. 

 

Regina disembarks. Already, the crowd has started to disperse, bar a disgruntled police officer who takes the reigns from Regina, muttering, “Should arrest you for that.” 

 

“My majesty,” Emma says, throwing a mocking bow. “I thank you.”

 

A lock of hair has fallen free from Regina’s braid and it’s starting to curl against her cheek. “That was very satisfying,” she says and she grins, her smile a little bit evil. Then, her stomach grumbles so loudly Emma can hear it.

 

“Breakfast,” Emma decides. “My treat.” 

 

She takes Regina to a diner she found once after an all-night stakeout. It does the best eggs Emma’s found in Boston and the bacon is always crispy. Regina eyes the formica table top and shiny, vinyl seats of the booth dubiously, but sits, posture erect, eyes darting around. “Coffee,” Emma tells the waitress. “Milk, no sugar. And her majesty will have…”

 

“Coffee also,” Regina says, and she sounds triumphant almost. 

 

“I’ll come back for your food orders in a few,” the waitress says and departs, leaving them with two giant menus. Emma, a creature of habit, knows what she wants but concentrates on the menu so as to avoid having to talk to the woman in front of her. However, when she looks up, Regina is eyeing a faux-vintage Coca-cola poster on the diner wall.

 

“You haven’t chosen anything yet,” Emma says.

 

Regina starts at the interruption from her reverie, the movement small, imperceptible if Emma weren’t already good at reading body language. “I’m not hungry,” she says.

 

Liar,” Emma says, and at Regina’s startled look, she adds, “It’s my superpower. I can always tell when someone’s lying.”

 

Regina sniffs. “As it happens—”

 

“The pancakes are good,” Emma says. “Or the waffles. I’m getting eggs.” She shoves her own menu, open at the pancake selection, across at Regina, and then ignores her. 

 

The waitress returns, pouring them coffee. “Fried eggs, with bacon and hash browns,” Emma says. “Thanks.”

 

“And for you, love?” the waitress asks, turning to Regina.

 

Regina stares at the page. “Apple pancakes,” she says. She then takes a triumphant sip of her coffee, before grimacing. “Ugh.”

 

“It’s rocket fuel,” Emma says, taking a hearty sip of her own, “But it does the job.”

 

“It’s foul,” Regina says. “Back home—” She pauses, eyelids lowering for a moment, jaw clenching. 

 

“Well,” Emma says, after an uncomfortable silence, and she knocks back the rest of her coffee. “You’re here now and this is as good as it’s gonna get.” 

 

Regina drinks the coffee in tiny, ladylike sips, grimacing after every taste, and Emma is grateful because it stops her from having to think up topics of conversation. What do you say to someone who thinks she’s a queen? Instead, she studies her. Without the harsh makeup and glamorous gown of earlier that morning, Regina appears much younger (around Emma’s age or possibly even younger) and darker, with skin that Emma suspects would be quite brown if she were allowed to see more sun and hair that looks like it’s probably curly, even twisted back into the complicated braid. 

 

The fingers curled around the handle of her coffee mug are long and thin and constantly moving, the tendons in her hand shifting. “Where did you learn to ride like that?” Emma asks.

 

Regina stiffens at this. “I’m sure that’s none of your business,” she snaps.

 

“Whatever,” Emma says, and is grateful to see the food arrive. 

 

Regina  _ stares _ when the plate is set down before her and can’t seem to help the whisper of, “It’s too much.”

 

“Eat as much or as little as you want,” Emma says. “You can take the rest back to Tamara’s with you, or whatever.”

 

For a moment, Regina stares at the plate and Emma tries not to watch her too obviously, though looking at her covertly over her eggs. She prods at the food with her fork, slices off a sliver of pancake and brings it to her lips. The look that crosses her mouth in the moment of taking her first bite is something Emma suspects she will remember for a long time; her eyes flutter closed, almost involuntarily, and she lets out a humming sigh. A bead of syrup lingers on her full lower lip for a moment, before her tongue darts out to lick it away.

 

The pancakes are gone in minutes, a smear of syrup and a few crumbs all that remain as Emma is still working on her eggs. “Good?” she asks.

 

“I had forgotten food could be like that,” Regina says, and she smiles and actually that—not the near-orgasmic reaction to eating or the malicious snarl of the hunter stalking down the thief— _ that _ is what Emma will remember for the rest of her life.

 

She still doesn’t buy Regina’s backstory though. She returns her to Tamara’s apartment and then settles down on her own couch to get to work on her next job, when Tamara calls. “How is she?” she asks.

 

“She stole a freaking horse,” Emma says, phone between her ear and shoulder and she sorts through her next file, what should hopefully be a straightforward traffic offence.

 

“You have to remember she’s a queen,” Tamara says. “Her situation is somewhat different.”

 

Emma snorts. “Give it up, Drake.”

 

“No, seriously,” Tamara says, and her voice is urgent now, lower and quicker. “Look, Emma, we have to get her back to her own time and place before the timelines twist further. She’s your—”

 

There’s a screeching of tyres and a thud and then the phone goes dead. “Tamara?”

 

***

 

“She’s a little doped up,” the nurse says, leading Emma into the hospital room, Regina following close behind.

 

Lying on the bed and stripped of her loud scarves and attitude, Emma is suddenly made aware of how small Tamara is, how skinny. Her thin hands lie across her stomach, her eyes are half closed, and she has a bandage wrapped around her head. Blackish bruising is visible across her clavicle at the edge of the hospital gown and both her legs are encased in plaster. “Broke both her legs,” the nurse says.

 

Regina lets out a quiet gasp and Emma automatically reaches out a hand to comfort her. “Do not touch me,” she hisses, sitting down in the one chair in the hospital room and fidgeting with her braid. 

 

It’s one step forward, two steps back with this one. She has to remember that. “Take care,” Tamara mumbles. “Queen...both of you…”

 

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, leaning into Tamara. “I’ll take care of your buddy.”

 

Inside, she’s freaking out. She’s not friends with Tamara. Hell, she doesn’t even have friends—not since Lily, not since Neal. Friendship is a luxury Emma can’t afford in her life and, yet, here she is, saddled with this favour when every instinct is screaming at her to run. “So,” she says, outside the hospital, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans and smiling in that falsely bright way she hasn’t used since she was a teenager and trying to reassure little kids who’d just arrived at some group home or other. “What do you want to do today?”

 

“I am quite capable of looking after myself, Miss Swan,” Regina says pompously, and then walks out in front of an ambulance. 

 

Emma grabs her arm and pulls her back. “Yeah, you’re doing a stand-up job,” she says.

 

They take the T back to Emma’s apartment, sitting side by side. There is a woman in front of them, holding a baby so that it faces towards them, and the kid keeps grinning at Regina. Emma focuses on staring out the window, but she’s drawn to the sight of Regina pulling faces at the kid: wrinkling her nose; sticking out her tongue; crossing her eyes. The baby gurgles with laughter and Regina smiles back at it.

 

“You have kids?” Emma asks when the mother and baby get off at the next stop.

 

Regina’s whole body stiffens. “No,” she says.

 

“Pity,” Emma says. “Seems like you’re good with them.” Not for the first time, she thinks about the kid—baby boy Swan—wiped clean of blood and swathed in blankets and seen only at a glance as he was carried from the room, and never hers, not for an instant.

 

Regina scowls. “Children are terrible,” she says and stares straight ahead of her determinedly all the way home. Emma leaves her be that afternoon. She has work to do, Regina obviously doesn’t want anything to do with her, and she’s not her responsibility. However,  that night, she orders a pizza and treks upstairs. 

 

She knocks, hesitating before unlocking the door. “Regina?” she calls. “I thought you might be hungry. I’ve got pizza.”

 

Regina exits the bedroom, hair still in its braid, though it has loosened considerably and is curling at the end. She’s frowning, eyes tired and bloodshot, mouth downturned. “I’m not a child,” she snaps.

 

“Didn’t say you were,” Emma says, sticking the pizza box on the coffee table and making a beeline for Tamara’s fridge where she knows there is an ample supply of beer. “Wouldn’t be offering a child one of these.” She uncaps it and passes it to Regina, who sniffs suspiciously.

 

“I didn’t follow Miss Drake through that vortex just to be trapped once more,” she says, though she sits down on the couch.

 

“You can do what you want, lady,” Emma says. “I’m not your babysitter.”

 

“So if I walked out right now…”

 

“I’d be worried,” Emma says, settling down at the other end of the couch and pulling off her boots. “Like, I’m pretty sure you just escaped a cult. I’d also probably want to remind you that you’ll be fined if you drink alcohol on the street.”

 

Regina’s lips quirk. “So what is this pizza thing?” And just like that, tension is released. 

 

“If you liked the pancakes, you’ll love this,” Emma says and she removes the lid with a flourish. A steam of cheese and tomato rises and Regina leans forward, seemingly in spite of herself.

 

“How do you eat like this,” Regina asks, “and look like that?” She gestures at Emma’s frame. 

 

“Making up for lost time,” she says, and takes a drink of her beer. “The way I grew up, if you didn’t eat when you could, you’d probably go to bed hungry.” She becomes uncomfortably aware of Regina staring at her. “My job gives me a pretty good workout too,” she adds and laughs, the sound echoing falsely.

 

For a moment, she thinks Regina’s going to ask about it—to ask about her childhood, all that stuff Emma’s kept locked away tightly since Neal for her own sanity—but instead she looks away, down at the pizza, and asks, “Are there knives and forks in this place?”

 

“This is finger food,” Emma says, grabbing a slice and taking a hearty bite. She ordered pepperoni but it’s been a while since she’s ordered the gourmet pizza and she’d forgotten this place tends towards the spicy end of things. She coughs and has to swig at her beer to cool her mouth.

 

“You’re an ingrate, Miss Swan,” Regina says, though Emma imagines she almost sounds fond, and she picks up a slice, taking a delicate bite. The pancake face—that expression of pure bliss—crosses her face. “It’s spicy,” she says, and sighs. “It’s been so long since I’ve encountered spice.”

 

Emma wants to ask how long but she can’t be sure how delicate a conversation this will end up being. So instead, she sort of laughs and finishes her slice, washing it down with the rest of her beer. Regina eats the slice greedily, fingers shining with grease. 

 

Once her hand is empty, however, guilt passes across her face. “I shouldn’t have eaten that,” she murmurs.

 

“You lactose intolerant?”

 

“Pardon?” Regina shakes her head. “My husband—”

 

“—isn’t here,” Emma says, trying to dampen down the wave of anger that’s passing through her. “Live a little, eat another slice. Actually…” She jumps up and heads into the kitchen. “It tastes really good with parmesan cheese.”

 

She stretches, rummaging through Tamara’s high shelves, her tank top riding high, and finds a jar of the stuff. Regina, standing close with a bottle of beer and watching her, stares at her stomach. “Do you have a child?” she asks.

 

_ Shit _ . She pulls her shirt down, covering the faint, silvery stretch marks that are the only reminder left of baby boy. “What?” she asks.

 

“I’ve only seen those lines on women who have had children,” Regina says.

 

“Stare at a lot of naked ladies?” Emma asks. The jab does nothing to deter Regina, however.

 

“Our society is far less prudish than your own,” she says, and places her empty beer bottle on the countertop. “And my mother used to talk about them. One of the many disappointments in having children, she used to say, is how it ruins your body.”

 

“Well, I’m not a mother,” Emma says, and she feels the ice in her words, wrapping her arms around herself. 

 

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Regina says but instead of pressing further, she takes another beer from Emma and returns to the couch. Emma remains in the kitchen, fists clenched white-tight, taking quiet breaths. “I cannot have children,” Regina says, and her words, obscured by walls and distance, are almost undecipherable. “At least, this is what the king’s doctors tell me.”

 

“Your husband?” Emma asks, moving into the living room. 

 

“Yes,” she says. “He—” But she stops.

 

“He nice, your husband?” She watches Regina sideways, watches her posture stiffen into that of the queen Emma first met. 

 

When she speaks, her words are wooden and rehearsed. “King Leopold is widely known as a fair and just ruler.”

 

“Not what I asked,” Emma says. 

 

“No,” Regina replies, and her thumb rubs compulsively across the wrist of her other hand. 

 

The night continues with lighter topics of conversation; Regina is still playing at being the queen and Emma plays along because, shit, this woman has been through enough surely. Emma’s prides herself on being good at reading people and Regina is definitely in an abusive marriage. If pretending she’s the queen of The Enchanted Forest makes it easier for her to face the world then Emma’s not going to be the one to bring her back to reality. 

 

Instead, between jobs, she helps integrate Regina into society. She takes her shopping for her own clothes (though using Tamara’s credit card), and finds herself surprised at Regina’s choices. She’s enamoured with tight jeans, with fitted blazers and waistcoats, and with shirts in various shades of blue. “They remind me of my riding clothes,” she says, twisting to look at herself in the full length mirror. “I always felt comfortable in those.” 

 

Emma sends her off to choose her own underwear, setting her up with someone to do a bra fitting and pretending to be on the phone when Regina calls out for her to offer her opinion. Her cheeks still feel warm when Regina returns from the fitting room, and she sees a flash of red lace in one of the shopping bags, which makes her imagination go to places it really shouldn’t. 

 

She takes Regina to the grocery store, amused at how a quick trip for necessities turns into hours of Regina marvelling at the most mundane products and critiquing the fruit and vegetable selection, comparing food with what she is used to. She digs into Tamara’s drawer of takeout menus (Emma’s solely a Chinese and Pizza kind of girl but Tamara has more diverse tastes) and gets her to order the hottest curries, the spiciest Mexican food she can find, Thai dishes with the highest chili rating… 

 

One night she introduces Regina to music, mostly 80s pop and Bruce Springsteen. The sight of Regina, a glass of wine in hand, swaying her head to ‘Love Shack’ is one that Emma hopes will never leave her, even as she laughs hysterically and pours wine down her front. 

 

Tamara is still in hospital, texting Emma regularly with ominous, vague portents of doom, but Emma is mostly content to ignore her.

 

Because having Regina around has actually been  _ fun. _

 

Still, she can’t forget her job. So when her fake dating profile pings with a message from a guy who defrauded his employees and then skipped out on bail responding to one of her messages and suggesting they meet up, she follows it up, agreeing to a meal at a classy restaurant down on Boston’s waterfront. There is a knock at her front door as she’s finishing up curling her hair. “Come in!”

 

“Miss Swan?” It’s Regina. 

 

“Just a minute,” she calls and steps back. “Not bad, Swan,” she murmurs, and exits the bathroom. 

 

Regina has turned on Emma’s radio and is humming along to the song playing, eyes half closed and body swaying as he rummages through Emma’s fridge. She has one of Tamara’s scarves looped around her neck and the fabric sways with the movement of her body. “Did you already drink the entire bottle of wine we bought yesterday?” 

 

“Regina,” Emma says. “I’ve got to go out.”

 

Regina stands and turns, and then her eyes widen. For one brief and perfect moment, Emma sees what might be desire in Regina’s eyes, the slight parting of her lips, the flush of colour to her cheeks. But it is gone so quickly she decides she must have imagined it and only the haughty queen remains. “You look very nice,” she says. “I am sure the gentleman in question will be suitably enamoured.”

 

“That’s the idea,” Emma says, laughing. “Look, feel free to stick around. I shouldn’t be late…”

 

“I wouldn’t want to be here when you come back,” Regina says, and her lip curls into a sneer. “I’m sure I would only be in the way.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, if you need me, the address of the restaurant is on the fridge.”

 

“Don’t worry about me, Miss Swan,” Regina says. She turns off the music, and buries her head in Emma’s fridge once more. “Is there still leftover Pad Thai?” 

 

Emma slips her feet into her heels and leaves, not sure why she feels so out of sorts. 

 

Still, she shakes it off by the time she’s out of her car, plastering a false smile on her face and striding into the restaurant. The guy is there, blandly handsome in an expensive-looking grey suit. He stands when she enters and steps forward; she sees his eyes drift to her breasts, on display in the tight pink dress she’s wearing. He leers and she does her best not to shudder.

 

“Derek?” she asks, looking up at him from beneath long lashes. “Hi. Oh gosh, you look just like your profile picture!” 

 

“You look even hotter, babe,” he says and directs her to the table with a hand at the small of her back. His fingers linger, threatening to drift lower, and she sits swiftly. “Wine?” he asks, and then clicks his fingers for the waiter and orders a bottle of shiraz without waiting for a response from her.

 

“I like a man who takes charge,” she says, simpering just a little. “So, tell me about yourself. What do you do for work?”

 

He launches into a tedious explanation of the business he defrauded months ago, and Emma’s eyes scan the restaurant. One real exit. This guy’s not clever enough to think about dodging through the kitchen, too impressed by his own importance to consider a back entrance. The place is quiet, so it’s unlikely she’ll find her exit blocked by wait staff bearing trays or a large party. 

 

She glances behind her at the entrance one more time and jumps, startled. Because Regina is standing there.

 

She’s gone all out. She has stolen a very short, black, leather dress from Emma’s wardrobe, as well as a pair of boots Emma wears on the rare occasion she grows bored of her own misanthropy and goes out. However, the dramatic sweep of hair and dark eye makeup is pure Regina at the moment Emma first met her, the young queen ruling once more in a more modern time. 

 

Regina sees her and scarlet lips curve into a shark’s smile. “Emma, darling!” she cries, and rushes forward. “What a surprise!” She presses a kiss to her cheek, breath warm on Emma’s skin, ignoring how tense Emma is.

 

“Friend of yours?” her bail jumper asks and he’s eyeing Regina in a way that makes Emma feel a torrent of possessiveness rush up inside her.

 

“No,” she snaps. “Regina, what are you doing here?”

 

“I thought I’d treat myself and go out for dinner,” she says. “I had no idea you’d be here! This must be your date. I’m Regina. And you are?”

 

“Derek,” he says, holding out a hand. Regina ignores it. 

 

“Now, how did you two meet?” she asks. A waiter comes by and offers her a chair at their table and Regina sits, taking Emma’s glass of wine with what seems like practised ease. Her lipstick leaves a scarlet stain on the glass.

 

“Online,” Derek says, and then adds, defensively, “There’s no shame in it anymore.”

 

“I’m sure there isn’t,” Regina says, laughing, and Emma almost laughs herself because Regina doesn’t have a clue what ‘online’ means and yet she still manages to imbue her comment with so much condescension. “And you have a career, I assume?”

 

Derek is looking between the pair of them though, looking at Regina’s hand clutching the stem of Emma’s wine glass, at Emma’s hand fisting at her skirt. “Hang on,” he says. “Is she your ex?”

 

Emma chokes on her water. “No!” she splutters. “Jesus. No.”

 

“Because,” Derek says, and he smirks and Emma knows in one horrifying moment exactly where this is going and is powerless to stop it, “I could be into that.” And he places a hand on Regina’s upper thigh.

 

The next moments are a bit of a blur. She knows Regina lashes out, scratching Derek’s pretty-boy face. She knows he launches forward, knocking over the table and, incidentally, pushing Emma out off her chair. “Crazy bitch!” he screeches and storms out of the restaurant. 

 

Sighing, Emma stands, tottering unsteadily in her heels and brushing bread crumbs off her dress, and strides out. She finds him in his car, the wheel booted because Emma’s not a total idiot, and swearing. “Hi,” she says, and the simpering smile is gone, replaced with a hard line, jaw set. “Derek McCullum, you’re going to have to come with me.” 

 

He tries to gap it out the other door and ends up getting his tie caught in the gearstick. “Dude,” she says. “Give it up,” and she claps her handcuffs on him.

 

She turns to see Regina behind her. “Miss Swan, I’m so—”

 

“Save it,” Emma snaps, interrupting her. Regina flinches as though she has been hit and Emma takes in a calming breath. “Just. Go home, Regina.”

 

Later, after hours at the police station waiting for her money, she fumbles with the keys at her apartment door, scowling at the disagreeable lock. She manages it on the third try and falls forward into her apartment, so tired she feels drunk. Her black dress is draped over the couch and she picks it up to hang back in her wardrobe. A slip of paper falls to the ground. It’s folded in half and sealed with wax. 

 

_ My dear Miss Swan, _

_ My behaviour tonight was inappropriate, abominably rude and beneath me. I have valued your friendship dearly over the past week and wish to make amends.  _

_ Meet me for dinner tomorrow night in Miss Drake’s apartment if you wish to accept my apology in person.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Regina _

 

Idiot, she thinks, but a fond smile remains on her lips. She grabs a post-it note, and scribbles ‘ _ if you wanted to ask me out you could have just said something’ _ and, before she can regret it, she sneaks upstairs and posts it to Tamara’s front door.

 

Despite a terrible evening, she goes to sleep smiling.  

 

The next morning is another story, however. Emma wakes late, spends several hours filling out paperwork on Derek McCullum, drinks an entire pot of coffee and panics every time she hears footsteps in the hall. Why did she leave that stupid note about a date? Now she feels like it’s actually a date and she’s having a breakdown; she used her only decent dress on the douchebag from last night, she’s run out of mascara, and, God, Regina probably thinks she’s a total idiot.

 

(Not her only decent dress, she reminds herself. But the black leather mini is Regina’s now; it smells of her perfume and will forever be inextricably linked with her in Emma’s mind.)

 

It’s just Regina. An apology dinner. Nothing more. 

 

Eventually she goes for jeans and a shirt and if the shirt is sheer and she’s curled her hair again, well, Regina might very well be putting a lot of effort into this meal and she doesn’t want to show up looking scruffy.

 

And she’s proven correct in this area at least because when Regina opens the door she is wearing the velvet dress from the first time Emma met her, the fabric playing across her curves, catching the light in the most delicious of ways. She looks different though, somehow. The severe hairstyle of their first meeting is replaced with loose hair and Emma thinks it might be her natural curls, which she has been keeping firmly braided back. She’s not wearing the dangerous makeup, either. “Wow,” Emma says. “You look—I think I’m underdressed.” She plucks at her shirt, frowning.

 

But Regina’s eyes scan her form, lingering on her chest momentarily. “Perhaps a little,” she says, and then she smiles. “Come in. I’ve cooked.”

 

“Do you know how to cook?” Emma asks and Regina bristles.

 

“Any fool can cook,” she says, sniffing. “Please, sit down.” She has set plates out at the coffee table. There is a vase holding several red roses and the room is lit only by candles. If Emma didn’t know any better, didn’t know that Regina is married, she would think this was actually a date. 

 

( _ Unhappily married _ , her brain whispers.)

 

“Can I help with anything?” she asks, still standing. 

 

“Uncork the wine,” Regina calls from the kitchen. “I’m plating food.”

 

She returns from the kitchen with two plates and places them on the coffee table. “You made lasagne,” Emma says, surprised and not a little impressed. 

 

“It was nothing,” Regina says. She takes a seat next to Emma, instead of across from her as Emma had expected, her thigh brushing against Emma’s as she settles in, cross-legged and relaxed in spite of the luxurious gown.

 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Emma says, handing her a glass of wine. She’s smiling though and Regina just shrugs. “Cheers.”

 

Their glasses clink and Emma eyes the food. “This looks amazing,” she says. “No matter how easy or difficult it was to prepare.”

 

Unfortunately, after one bite, it becomes apparent that Regina cannot cook. Being watched expectantly and with that soft smile, Emma chokes down the undercooked pasta, the burnt white sauce, the grainy meat. “Delicious,” she chokes out between bites. “Really. Very tasty.”

 

Regina beams and takes a bite of her own, before spitting it out in disgust. “I certainly hope it’s not supposed to taste like that!” she says, and Emma starts laughing and can’t stop, falling back against the couch. “Well,” Regina says, sniffing and taking their plates. “I’m glad you find this so amusing.” She sweeps into the kitchen. 

 

She returns moments later, though, having perhaps seen the funny side of it and carrying a tray bearing two dishes of what looks like mousse. “This is definitely good,” she says. “I used to help Papa make it when I was a child and I’ve never forgotten.” 

 

This time, Emma is more tentative in taking a mouthful, but she needn’t have worried. The smooth coconut dessert is rich and creamy, and she sighs with pleasure. “God, this is amazing.”

 

“I’m glad,” Regina says, and takes a bite herself. “The ingredients here are so foreign and I was worried I might have forgotten how to make it after all this time. Mother didn’t approve of my eating desserts and then the king didn’t like foreign food.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, the words seeming inadequate. 

 

“So am I,” Regina says. She picks at the skirts of the dress and Emma notices that her feet are bare. “Sorry I ever had to marry him.”

 

“Why did you?” she asks and Regina stiffens. “You don’t have to answer.”

 

Regina takes another bite of dessert. “My mother arranged my marriage,” she says and her laugh is bitter. “Quite literally. I saved his insipid daughter from a convenient runaway horse and a proposal was my prize. I tried to run but, well, I learned from Mother that one doesn’t say no to a king.”

 

Emma finds herself reaching out and placing her hand over Regina’s, which is shaking. “Tell me.”

 

“I’m an ornament,” she says. “His pretty,  _ exotic _ child bride, a songbird in a gilded cage as decoration for the court.” She laughs again, and she sounds wild, coming unhinged. “Nanny, whore, decoration.” Her hands clench into fists and her jaw clenches and her shoulders shudder and, God, Emma thinks she might be crying. 

 

And it is then that Emma chooses to believe. And maybe she’s going crazy but she does, she really, truly believes Regina, believes Tamara, believes the whole ridiculous story.

 

“You’re here now,” Emma says. “You’re free.” She contemplates putting an arm around Regina but she’s not that kind of person, not someone other people go to for comfort. And with all the talk of cages, would Emma’s arms be a cage? So, instead, she continues to hold Regina’s hand, thumb stroking against skin, memorising the grooves of her knuckles, the feel of silken skin against her fingertips.

 

They sit there for a time, Regina’s silent tears slowing and then at last ceasing. Silently, Emma hands her a napkin and Regina dabs at her eyes. “My apologies,” she says, all stiff and formal again, posture upright and skirts falling in a puddle around her. 

 

“Hey,” Emma says. “It’s fine.” But Regina is still stiff, staring straight ahead, body electric with tension. She clears her throat. “I—no one knows this.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Regina says. “Don’t mistake my breakdown for some kind of  _ bonding _ session.” There is a snarl present on her lips but her eyes tell the truth, and Emma can’t help but want to tell her everything. 

 

“No, I’ve never wanted to before,” she says. “I told you I wasn’t a mother and that’s true but, there was this guy and I got stupid, got pregnant, got imprisoned.” Regina’s hand tightens on Emma’s. “I gave the kid up, wanted him to have his best chance, which wasn’t with me.”

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

“I try not to think about him,” she says. He’s locked away in her heart, the baby boy she never held, never even saw. “I hope he’s with a good family.”

 

“I’m sure they love him so much,” Regina says.  “If he’s anything like you, he will be easy to love.”

 

Emma turns to look at her and finds Regina staring directly at her, face dappled by the flickering candlelight. Her lips curve into a smile, open with hope and possibility. Her eyes shine. A lock of hair falls forward and Emma reaches up a shaking hand to push it back behind her ear. Her fingertips linger over her skin, trace her jawbone, and then move to her lips, caressing the sharp scar, touching her lips. “Do you mean that?”

 

“Yes,” Regina says, voice barely a breath.

 

And so Emma leans forward and kisses her.

 

She is tentative at first, not sure where to put her hands, not sure what Regina can handle. She ghosts her fingers up Regina’s back, bare due to the cut of the dress, and feels her shudder beneath the touch, feels one hand clench against Emma’s thigh. She breaks away from her, forehead still resting against Regina’s. “What do you want?” she asks. She feels breathless, light-headed, giddy and foolish in a way she hasn’t ever felt before. 

 

“You,” Regina says, and she leans forward, kissing Emma again, pushing her back against the couch, one leg draped over Emma’s body. Her hands scrape through Emma’s hair. “Just you,” she breathes in her ear and then shifts to press a kiss to Emma’s jaw.

 

Still, though, Emma is careful. She is careful as she stands, offering her hand to Regina. She is careful as, Regina’s hand clasped tight in hers, she blows out the candles. She is careful as she lets Regina take the lead, pulled behind Regina and towards the tiny spare bedroom-cum-office that Regina has been using. 

 

It’s a full moon out and the drapes are open, the light from the moon painting Regina in a silver glow. For a moment, they stand, staring at each other. “Do I have to do all the work here, Miss Swan?” Regina asks, irritably pushing hair over her shoulder and baring her neck. 

 

Emma surges forward, kissing her again, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to her jaw bone, her bare neck, dampening down on this primal urge to mark Regina because Regina has clearly been owned enough in her life. Regina sighs, low, throaty. “What do you want?” Emma asks again.

 

“Less clothes,” Regina says, fumbling with the buttons of Emma’s shirt. Emma kicks off her shoes, shrugs off her shirt and reaches behind to undo her bra. Regina stills for a moment, meets Emma’s eyes, and then reaches a hand out to reverently touch her breast, stopping just before she reaches her goal. Emma shivers at the potential. “May I?”

 

“Please,” Emma says, and she’s embarrassed at the whine in her voice. Regina pushes her back against the bed and, after barely a moment’s hesitation, presses kisses to one breast, hand stroking and kneading the other. Emma’s back arches and she digs her fingers into the mattress when Regina latches onto a nipple, tongue twirling, shooting sparks that coil and twist in Emma’s stomach. The velvet of her dress presses deliciously against Emma’s skin, the jewels at its collar scratch against Emma’s stomach.

 

“Much as I like the velvet,” Emma says, hissing when Regina’s teeth nip at her breast, “I feel  _ really _ under-dressed right now.” She trails a hand down Regina’s covered arm.

 

Regina stands and turns, her back to Emma. “Unclasp me.” 

 

Emma sits up and presses a kiss to her bare back, before fiddling with the delicate clasps. The support appears built into the gown and when it falls away, Regina is left in only a brief slip. She turns her head to look at Emma, appearing vulnerable almost, hair falling down her back. “You’re—just, wow,” Emma says, and Regina turns fully and stares at her, the nipples of her small breasts taut with cold or—Emma hopes—arousal. Her hand trails up Emma’s thigh and plays at the buckle of Emma’s belt.

 

“I feel like a powder keg,” she says, and then straddles Emma, kissing, sucking, nipping, because Regina apparently has no such compunctions about marking Emma. She guides Emma’s hands to her breasts, sighing at every tweak and caress, and then she starts to rub herself against Emma’s thigh.

 

“Regina,” Emma says. “What do you want?”

 

Regina’s breathing is laboured, heavy, when she responds. “Touch me. Please.”

 

And so Emma does. She trails her fingertips up, underneath the slip, drifting along Regina’s thighs, feeling her jerk and twitch beneath her touch. Her skin is satin, and she is so responsive. “Can you lie back?” she asks. When Regina obediently does so, Emma quickly divests her of the slip and herself of her jeans, before nudging Regina’s legs apart.

 

It all happens so quickly after that. She touches first, then licks, and then brings her fingers into play, scissoring and curling until Regina is crying out, needy and panting. She flicks her tongue against Regina’s clit, again and again, drawing circles, pressing, anything to make Regina’s thighs clamp and her back arc and for her to make that sound, low in her throat, that makes Emma so wet she can’t even stand it, bringing a hand to her own clit to get herself off in time with Regina. 

 

Regina shields her eyes as she comes, as though even looking at Emma is too much, and by the time she’s ridden out three orgasms, she’s shining with sweat and boneless, her eyes closed and a dopey grin on her face. “I knew my seduction plan would work,” she murmurs when Emma relocates, resting her head on Regina’s shoulder, one arm draped across her stomach. 

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Emma says, but she presses a kiss to Regina’s bare shoulder, and nuzzles against her skin. 

 

“You’re perfect,” Regina says, and then she grins. “So, Miss Swan, I think it’s time you tell me what  _ you _ want.”

 

“Everything,” Emma says. “Anything. You.” 

 

And she gets all that and more.

 

When she wakes the next morning, Regina is curled into her side, snoring lightly, lips half-pressed against Emma’s breast as though she were kissing it as she fell asleep. Emma slips out from beneath her, pulling on her underwear and shirt, and sets the coffee pot. The remains of dinner is still on the coffee table, the dessert melted and dripping off one of the plates. She smiles and pours two mugs of coffee. When she returns to the bedroom, Regina is only just waking, rubbing her eyes blearily, and she smiles in relief when she sees Emma. “Coffee,” Emma says, handing her a mug.

 

Regina sits up. “It’s so early,” she grumbles.

 

“I have to get some work done,” Emma says. “I’ll be home later though,” she adds, and then hesitantly suggests, “Perhaps I could take you out.”

 

“I’d like that,” Regina says and she pats the bed. “Now, come back to me.” 

 

“As my queen commands,” Emma jokes.

 

“Don’t,” Regina says, and her grip on the coffee mug tightens. “I—just don’t.”

 

Emma presses a kiss to her forehead and sips her coffee. She’s never experienced this closeness before, this sense of companionship in silence, and she likes it more than feels safe. She wants to get used to it, even as her brain screams for her to run away, to get out before she gets hurt. “I think I’m falling for you,” she says, staring into her coffee mug. The words are out now, and she regrets them, the way they make her feel unmoored, uncertain, vulnerable.

 

But Regina is looking at her with those hopeful eyes and they anchor her and steady her. “I think I’ve already fallen,” she says.

 

“This isn’t a competition,” Emma grumbles. She drains her mug. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.” She kisses Regina, feels that build up of pressure inside her threaten to burst, and feels Regina smile against her lips. A giggle escapes and Emma’s not even sure which of them it is.

 

“Go,” Regina says, and pushes Emma away from her. “Before I  _ make _ you stay.”

 

It is difficult to keep the smile off her face today and even the guy she picks up for skipping court on a public indecency charge notices it, saying, “Aren’t you just Mary Sunshine, the bounty hunter?”

 

“Bail bondsperson,” Emma says. “And, today, yes, I am!” For the first time, she wishes Regina had a cellphone. She has never been one for text messages, has always found those people who send messages to their partners about every inane thing too needy for words, but today, God, she wants to send so many cute messages.

 

_ Last night was wonderful. _

_ I miss your smile. _

_ I want to introduce you to movies. Date night?  _

_ <3 <3 <3 _

 

Walking home, she stops at a florist and buys several sunflowers, bound with black netting. They remind her of Regina, which is too cheesy for words, but today, right now, she feels cheesy.  

 

However, when she bursts into the upstairs apartment, she’s greeted not with Regina but with Tamara, her plastered legs resting on the coffee table and a set of crutches leaning against the couch. “Hey!” Emma says, grinning. “You’re back.”

 

“Discharged this morning,” she says. “You know, it’d be nice if you knocked first.”

 

“Is Regina around?” Emma asks, trying desperately to sound casual and failing miserably. 

 

“She’s gone,” Tamara says, Emma hears ringing in her ears, loud and insistent. Tamara’s still talking but Emma’s not listening. “—for the good of the timeline. Regina understood how important this was.” Her vision blurs and she steadies herself against the couch. “—reconfigured the device and sent her—”

The sunflowers fall to the floor. “I have to go.” The stem of one sunflower snaps beneath her foot as she leaves, and the petals crunch into the carpet. 

 

Her own apartment seems unbearably cold and grey, the blinds closed against the winter sunlight, and she wraps her jacket around herself, shivering. And then she sees it. At the door, as though it has been slipped under, is a folded slip of paper. She picks it up and opens it. 

 

_ Dear Emma, _

_ I’m sorry I had to leave like this.   _

_ Miss Drake tells me I might not remember anything but I don’t see how I could possibly forget you, darling Emma. _

_ Thank you for helping me to be free, even just for a short time. _

_ Your Regina _

 

She snarls and before she can even think, she tears the letter into shreds, the pieces raining like confetti onto her floors. She doesn’t cry. She won’t cry. Still tears prick hotly and her breath shudders and she feels this grip on her heart, clawing tight and painful. 

 

_ Idiot. Foolish child. One week’s all a slut like you deserves.  _

 

She finds the bottle of whiskey hidden in the cupboard under the sink. Oblivion. That’ll do it.

 

***

 

Time passes. 

 

Tamara moves to New York, dropping by to see Emma on her last night. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It was for the best.” Emma grunts and slams the door in her face. She never bothers to introduce herself to the new woman who moves into the apartment upstairs, because what’s the point? People leave. People let you down. 

 

Time passes.

 

Emma builds her business. Becomes successful, moves into a new apartment, one in an upscale neighbourhood, one that is cold and free of personality and doesn’t remind her of Regina, who she has locked tight away in a box in her mind. She never unpacks her things, though one late, drunken night, she pulls out her baby blanket and cries into it.

 

Time passes.

 

It’s her 28th birthday. She hasn’t worn the hot pink dress in a long time, but she does tonight. She catches her guy, some asshole who embezzled from his employer, skipped his court date, skipped out on his wife, and then had the cheek to then pick Emma up through her fake internet dating profile. 

 

_ “The hell do you know about family, huh?” _ finds itself on repeat in her mind. Asshole. She hopes she broke his nose.

 

Finally, she makes it back to her apartment, slipping her feet out of her heels and lighting a single star-shaped candle in the cupcake purchased at the bakery down the street. She stares into the flickering flame, watches the wax drip down the side of the candle. “Another banner year.”

 

She closes her eyes, blowing out the candle and making a wish.  _ Just this once, I don’t want to be alone _ . Regina’s face flashes into her mind, soft and smiling like the last time she saw her, and for once she doesn’t shove the image away.

 

A sharp rap at the door jolts her from the memory. Her eyes burst open and for one insane moment of blazing hope, Emma thinks it’s her.

 

Instead, there’s some kid at her door. “Can I help you?” she asks.

 

“Are you Emma Swan?” the kid asks. There’s something about him, something familiar in the stubborn shape of his jaw, the colour of his eyes. 

 

“Yeah,” she replies, suspicious. People don’t know her name. They don’t know where she lives. For a moment she’s worried that the kid’s been sent by someone unsavoury she put away once to case her apartment. “Who are you?” 

 

He grins. “My name’s Henry. I’m your son.” And, while her whole world crashes down around her, he ducks under her arm and into her apartment. 

 

By the time the kid has drunk her juice straight from the carton, blackmailed her, and essentially kidnapped her, she’s on the road to some hick town in Maine several hours away, and the kid is riding shotgun, telling her about this book of his, about how all the stories in it are true, and about her being one of the characters.

 

“Kid, you’ve got problems,” she says, but her heart beats a little faster and her fingers twitch, desperate to see the illustrations in this book of stories, which Henry tells her is about an Evil Queen and a place called The Enchanted Forest. 

 

“You  _ want _ to believe,” he says, looking across at her, and her hands grip the steering wheel harder. 

 

It’s cold in Storybrooke, Maine, colder than it was in Boston. She looks up at the house she’s been directed to by the guy Henry tells her is Jiminy Cricket though is actually his shrink. Shivering, she wraps her arms around herself. 

 

108 Mifflin Street. It’s dark, but this place is enormous. Emma would have killed to live in a house like this as a child, to have been as obviously well-fed and clothed and taken care of as Henry is. Henry thinks otherwise when she asks him, babbling about an evil queen and a mother who only  _ pretends _ to love him with the frantic surety of a ten-year-old.

 

And then the front door to the grand house opens and Emma doesn’t hear anything else because it’s her. It’s Regina. Her hair is short—it’s the first thing Emma notices—and then she can’t hear or speak or move because, God, it’s Regina and she is running towards Henry, her eyes wet with tears, and wrapping her arms around him but he squirms away, angry and yelling, “I found my  _ real _ mom.” He runs past her, into the grand house. 

 

Regina straightens, wiping at her eyes, and sees Emma for the first time. “You’re Henry’s birth mother?” she asks and Emma chooses to see a quirk at the corner of Regina’s lips, chooses to see wild hope in her eyes.

 

And Emma tilts her head to the side and says, “Hi.”

  
And that is how it begins. 


End file.
